Eight Minutes
by PrairieLily
Summary: All he wanted was to give his Auntie the perfect gift. Background Sherlolly, this is set between 8 and 9 years after The Final Problem. OC is 6 year old Will Holmes. Plenty of Rosie though she isn't a character option... Complete, it will be posted in regular intervals. Fluffily that ties in to "Namesake", which I published recently. No copyright infringement intended!
1. Chapter 1

_This story takes place approximately 6 years and a bit after the events in "Namesake". Try as I might, I can't stop the fluffily from spilling onto my computer screen! This story, as always, is complete and will be posted in regular intervals._

"Daddy… just ONE more hour… PLEASE?!"

One Mr. John Victor William Holmes, aged 6, gazed up at his father, Sherlock, with all the adoration he could muster.

Sherlock sighed, thinking. Well on the one hand, he could encourage his son, who was appearing to be something of a child prodigy with the violin his Aunt Eurus had insisted on giving him as one of her "treats", not to mention the violin lessons she had taken upon herself to teach him… but now the child – to the chagrin, or delight – depending on who you asked in 221B Baker Street – had begun to compose his own pieces.

Perhaps little Will Holmes – dubbed as such to avoid confusion with his godfather, Dr. John Watson – was simply nearing the end of his day's inspiration, and needed to complete it.

But on the other hand, he might be better to keep to a stricter schedule.

Decisions, decisions. Sherlock took just a few moments to weigh his options. Encouragement and support vs discipline. Well you can't rein in a creative soul. The question would be, what would Molly say to it?

Dr. Molly Hooper – chief medical examiner at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, wife of Sherlock Holmes, and mother to said young Mr. John Victor William – budding child prodigy - smiled from the kitchen, hearing the entire exchange between her 6 year old son and her husband.

Their landlady, and so much more than JUST their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, winked at her.

 _"Always ask your parents for one half hour more than you really need,"_ Mrs. Hudson had advised the young lad. _"That way, you have plenty of time, and they think they have bargained you down, and have WON."_ He had rewarded his godmother with as big of a bear hug as his little 6 years old arms could reach, she had returned the favour with not two but FOUR fresh oatmeal biscuits - which he had promptly shared equally with his best friend and flatmate, Rosie Watson.

"Do you REALLY need one more hour?" Sherlock had brought himself down to a level to look at his son in the eye. "Think about it carefully, son. It's your bedtime. Is it REALLY IMPORTANT?"

Will gazed at his father steadily, saying with absolute sincerity, "Yes daddy. It's REALLY important."

"Really, REALLY important?"

"It's really, REALLY, super DUPER important. Please daddy, I promise I'll go straight to bed as soon as I've finished. Mummy said I could, if you agreed."

Sherlock sighed, stood up straight, and smiled down at his young doppelganger. With those words, Sherlock knew that he was well, truly, and utterly screwed. "Mummy said I could if..." was pretty much the ace up his son's sleeve – every bloody time.

"Alright then son, ONE hour. Not a MINUTE past it." He picked the young lad up, still small enough to scoop up and cuddle, and young enough to appreciate it without protest, and squeezed him, kissing the head of the beaming young boy.

"Thank you daddy!" he whispered into Sherlock's ear. He snuzzled his head under his dad's chin for a moment, truly content. "I LOVE you daddy!" Sherlock smiled. He was such a sucker to his son's charms. God help him if anyone figured it out.

William Holmes smiled to himself as his father put him back down on his feet. He really only needed maybe half what he'd asked for. But he knew that always being under budget at his bedtime extension requests would grant him favour.

He really, really DID need the extra thirty-five though. This was special, and he wanted to make sure it was absolutely perfect.

Even his Dad knew that composing a piece couldn't be interrupted. It had to be followed through, or it would be utterly ruined.


	2. Chapter 2

Will Holmes's best friend, Rosie Watson, less than 3 years his senior, had sat in and listened in on Will's efforts to compose a special piece for his Auntie Eurus, for as long as her own daddy, Dr. John Watson, had allowed into the later hours past her own bedtime. She sighed happily, watching him play. She curled up in the big comfortable chair in Will's room, the one his mum used to sit in to soothe him to sleep when he was fussy… hugging her legs tightly to her chest and snuggling under the blanket she had taken in with her.

Sometimes, years ago, when Will was small and fussy, she had felt fussy too. Often she would toddle into his room and clamber up into Molly's lap, taking comfort in her godmother's arms. Molly never seemed to mind. For some reason, Rosie's presence calmed Will when he was being particularly unsettled.

When Will was old enough to be in a real bed, oftentimes Molly would settle Rosie in next to him if Rosie had chosen it. They seemed to settle each other. Only a fool would argue with that.

Rosie's heart swelled with contentment and happiness, curled up in Will's "fussy chair". Hearing Will's Aunt Eurus play was nice, she always played perfectly and never made any mistakes. Hearing her godfather, Uncle Sherlock, play – it made her feel at home, and safe. He played the same pieces that Eurus played, only differently somehow. He played perfectly too, but his playing made her happy and helped her to sleep when she was restless – for as long as she could remember he had done that for her. It was one of the things she cherished most about her godfather.

But listening to her best friend play – well that was something else. Will was somewhere between his dad and Aunt Eurus. Rosie was glad that all the grownups at 221B were so patient with him. There were few instruments, save for the drums, which could strike fear and dread into the adults quite like a request to learn the violin.

She loved listening to Will play, he had picked it up quickly and easily – and to the relief of every grown-up living at, above, and next door to 221B Baker Street – he seemed to have a natural gift for it. More than anything else in the world though, Rosie loved to watch and listen to Will write his own pieces. If Will's Aunt Eurus was nice to hear, and Uncle Sherlock made her heart smile – well, Will made her heart sing. She longed for him to write something for her someday.

If Sherlock had any reservations about his decision to allow Will to stay up an extra hour, he needn't have worried, as it turned out. Will had completed what he wanted to a full 25 minutes sooner than he had requested. The night's inspiration, it seemed, had been suitably purged onto the paper. One more night of tricky bargaining with his dad – or mum, or Uncle John, or whoever was home, Will estimated, should be enough. Then it would be time to share his project with his dad, and ask when they could visit Aunt Eurus again.

* * *

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, studying the musical piece his 6 year old son had just handed to him.

"Could we play this for Aunt Eurus for her birthday daddy?"

Molly sat, curled up with Rosie on her lap, in Sherlock's big squishy leather chair. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, her favourite spot to insert herself, yet still insist that she was their landlady, not their housekeeper. John Watson sat in his own chair, smiling to himself.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. This was definitely an interesting piece. Simple in theory, complex in everything else. They had all been privy to the composition in its small pieces, but here it was, in its completion.

"Son, do you mean for us to play it for your Aunt, or share it with her?"

"Play it. Well share it too. I want you to play it with me daddy, for Auntie, then I want to give it to her so she can play it too." He gazed up at his father with dark unruly curls and the most pleading look in his blue green eyes. "I want all of us to play it together once she's seen it and learned it."


	3. Chapter 3

Eurus Holmes sat quietly in her cell at Sherrinford, tuning everyone and everything out, as she usually did.

Her back facing the doorway, she neither heard nor saw the door swish open, and the soft footsteps of her sudden crowd of approaching visitors.

Sherlock, Molly, and young Will Holmes entered the cell area. Molly smiled up at her husband, then down at their son. She was excited to hear this gift played for the woman who had delivered their only child just over six years ago. For as damaged as she was, and as much damage as she had caused, Molly knew that Eurus was broken, and the only way to help the pieces to mend was to provide contact and to make her understand that she wasn't alone, just as she had inadvertently done for Eurus just over 6 years ago. To this day, in fact, Eurus seemed to confide in her. She connected to Sherlock through music, when he would come to play with her. But Molly, she treated more like the best friend she felt she hadn't had growing up. Molly helped to keep her grounded, because she felt she wasn't alone with her there.

When young Will accompanied his parents, though, a light shone in Eurus' eyes. She was always taken back to that moment when she had been the very first person in the world to hold him. She didn't understand what love was, but she felt it for him, unconditionally. She knew nothing of the emotion - only that when Will was visiting, her chest felt heavy and light at the same time. She felt like smiling, without forcing it for personal gain or to manipulate anyone to do her bidding. Will always left her feeling at peace, and looking forward to the young child's next visit.

Molly glanced behind her as the door swished open one last time. Mycroft Holmes entered without comment. He strode smoothly up to her and smiled at her briefly but warmly, reaching down to squeeze her shoulder, before crossing his arms behind his back and quickly assuming an expression of mere professional interest. He had heard his brother and his nephew rehearse this piece. He wouldn't miss this for ANYTHING in the world.

Little Will paused to take the child-sized violin he had been learning on from its case. Sherlock, in his own quiet distracted way, removed his own. Father and son readied themselves, focus on their instruments, and with a nod to each other, they began to play the piece.

Eurus didn't move for a minute or two, then her head cocked to the side. Slowly she rose to her feet and turned around, and her eyes glanced first to her older brother, who by habit gazed steadily into her cell, maintaining eye contact without pause or break… and then downwards to her lone nephew.

Will looked back at his Aunt with an expression of adoration that she was accustomed to seeing, but still didn't grasp the emotion behind. She watched his small hands play over the strings and work the bow in a tune that she had never heard before – simple yet complex at the same time. The miniature version of her brother that stood before her played with intensity, the unruly dark curls moving with the rhythm of his playing. For a moment, she was taken back to her childhood, to a young boy, just a year older than her, who looked remarkably identical to the child who stood before her in the present time.

A smile began to play in the corners of her mouth as the young lad and his father finished the piece.

"Happy birthday Auntie," Will said. "I hope you like your present, I wrote it for you myself."

"I like it very, very much, William," she said sincerely. Eurus paused a moment, wondering what that sensation was in her chest and throat, and why the corners of her eyes suddenly were wet with moisture. They were familiar somehow, but, being Eurus, she wasted no time trying to identify them.


	4. Chapter 4

Eurus Holmes threw her violin down with frustrated violence. By some stroke of luck, it landed on the hard floor of her cell relatively undamaged.

"I cannot master this piece!" she cried, with fury. Mycroft watched her, wordlessly.

"Are you not playing it with precision, sister?" he asked? Eurus swayed her head and fought to stop herself from saying something really, really bitchy.

"I am playing it exactly as it has been written, Mycroft," she huffed. "I just can't master it. Our nephew has written something simple. I could compose this in my sleep if I wanted to, it's basic violin theory. But I just can't make it sound RIGHT."

Mycroft had heard the piece several times before, and he found no fault in her playing. He thought about listening to Sherlock and Eurus play the same piece on different occasions, and they never sounded quite the same in their interpretations.

Then, in a flash of what he would later consider genius, Mycroft realized what the problem was, and where the difference lay. He smiled to himself, thinking how obvious this should have been, and briefly chiding himself for not realizing sooner.

Well, to be fair, he DID claim to not have much of a heart.

There was more to it than just the technical mastery of the notes. The gift his 6 year old prodigy nephew had given to his Aunt was more than just sheet music of his own creation. The child was clearly a genius – _obviously_ , he had taken after his uncle, Mycroft thought to himself.

It was time to text Sherlock. He needed to pay another visit to Sherrinford, with his young son in tow.

* * *

Rosie Watson had begged her father to accompany the Holmes's to Sherrinford.

When Will had confided in her at how disappointed his Aunt seemed to be with his gift when she had tried to play it herself, Rosie had wanted to help more than anything in the world. She had a feeling that there was more to it than what met the eye – being raised by not only her father, but her consulting detective godfather, and a pathologist for one of her two ever-present godmothers, Rosie knew better than to take anything at face value, even at the tender age of 8.

"Do you think maybe she just didn't get it?" Rosie asked. Will stared glumly at the floor of his bedroom. He shrugged his shoulders sadly, the disappointment framing his young face.

" _I_ got it Will, it's a beautiful song. I don't understand why she didn't like it. It's so NICE and PRETTY. I would have loved it if you'd written it for me."

"But I DIDN'T write it for you, Rosie," Will said. His blue-green eyes threatened to brim over with the tears of a heartbroken child. "Thanks though," he said sadly. Secretly, he was glad she was there. Nobody seemed to understand more than Rosie did, and nobody had ever been able to make him feel better quite like she did either.

Molly, standing in the doorway, pausing a moment before ushering Rosie back to her own bedroom, took on a look of curiosity, and then, in a flash, comprehension struck.

Perhaps Mycroft was right, and a family trip to Sherrinford WAS in order.

And thus, Sherlock, Molly, and Will Holmes, accompanied by John and Rosie Watson, and Mycroft for good measure, filed through the door of Eurus's secured cell area.


	5. Chapter 5

John Watson wasn't surprised when his spunky 8 year old daughter took control of the situation. She was her mother all over again. He smiled at the blessing that as long as he had Rosie, Mary would never truly be gone.

She was, even in Mary's absence, thoroughly her daughter – in spite of never having really known her.

"Miss Holmes," Rosie had said politely, "Why don't you like the music Will wrote for you?"

Eurus sat down on the floor, crossing her legs. Her violin was close at hand, the musical sheets that Will and Sherlock had given to her on their last visit sat next to it, cast aside in frustration.

"I can't play it properly," Eurus said. "I can't make it sound right, even though it's simple, I can't make it sound right."

Rosie smiled. Will, standing beside her, looked at her curiously, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Trust me," she said, whispering in his ear. She took his hand, grasping it with a firm squeeze, and held on to it.

Mycroft took note. Holmes and Watson. Was there ever any doubt the second generation would be as close as the first? Smugly, he thought to himself, he had called it YEARS ago, on the very day his nephew had been born.

"Daddy and Uncle Sherlock told me that Will was born right here," Rosie said. "They said you were terribly frightened because Will wasn't breathing when he was first born. They said you smacked his bottom to make him cry."

"Yes," Eurus said. "I remember that. He was so still and quiet… and he was turning a shocking strange colour."

"How did you feel when you made him cry and you made him breathe?" Rosie knew how to get to the point, if nothing else – another trait from the mother she never knew. Why beat around the bush when you could cut it down with pruning shears and give the problem no place to hide?

Eurus paused, her eyebrows furrowing over intense blue eyes.

"Relief, I think… my chest hurt, it felt full, it was hard to breathe. My throat ached. I didn't want to let him go, I wanted to hold him and protect him forever and ever and ever."

Rosie smiled. She KNEW it.

"Miss Holmes," Rosie said, "you felt love. Your heart was all filled up with love for Will. I know you think you don't know what that is, but I think you really do. You just don't realize it."

Eurus looked confused. "Rosamund, I am incapable of feeling love. I don't even understand the difference between pleasure and pain, to me it all feels the same." Eurus reached over and picked up the sheet music Will had given to her on his last visit.

"Do you have the music memorized yet?" Rosie asked her. "I know it's simple, you must have it in your memory already."

Eurus nodded silently. "I know it by heart, I've practiced it enough times."

Rosie giggled, "Then PLAY it from your heart. That's why you can't make it sound right!"

Eurus looked at her nephew, who stood with his violin and bow in one hand, hanging limply at his side. "How do I do that?

The adults in the room, the ones who hadn't already realized it, smiled. Where did Rosamund Watson find this wisdom?

Will's blue green eyes grew wide, and he looked over at his best friend as he realized what was happening. His face lit up like a beacon and his smile became so wide he nearly laughed out loud. "Rosie!" he cried, beginning to bounce on his toes, squeezing the hand that had continued to hold his. He turned back to look at Eurus, his entire body seeming to be electrified with excitement.

"Auntie, close your eyes and remember when I was born and how it made you feel to hold me. Then play the piece!" His excitement at his best friend's revelation made him giddy and hyper.

For Will and Rosie it was as deliciously simple and basic and wonderful as one of Mrs. Hudson's oatmeal biscuits dunked in milk. The adults surrounding them took a look around at each other. Molly and Mycroft, who had made the revelation before they had arrived that day, smiled. They loved it when a plan came together.

"It WILL work Auntie," Will pleaded. "I PROMISE! You'll be able to play it PERFECTLY then!"

Eurus closed her eyes, taking herself back more than 6 years. The power outage at Sherrinford, Molly in her cell, gone into labour, Sherlock and John trapped in the governor's office with Mycroft, unable to get to them. The feeling when her nephew was suddenly in her hands, turning blue and not breathing. The frantic voices of John on the CCTV and Molly, both instructing her how to get him to breathe – and the feeling that filled her chest and brought tears to her eyes, unbidden and confusing, as she cradled him and whispered his name to him after his airway was cleared and his colour started to turn a healthy perfect pink.

Eyes still closed, but her mind still in that moment 6 years prior, she raised her violin to her chin and brought the bow up to the strings. As she began to play, her eyes opened and she smiled at Will as the notes came from the instrument with all of the love and perfection that Will had written them for her with.

Rosie, still holding Will's hand, gave it a firm squeeze. "She GETS it Will!" she whispered happily, bouncing on her tip toes. John Victor William Holmes sighed with utter happiness and contentment.


	6. Chapter 6

_This, the final chapter to this story, is very short by comparison to the others. It's meant as more of an epilogue. I hope you've enjoyed this story and that I haven't sent too many pancreases into total failure!_

"Eight minutes," Sherlock said. "It took our children just eight minutes to do what we have been unable to achieve in 8 years." He looked over at John, who sat in his chair at 221B with a glass of scotch – neat – in his hand. Mycroft, who sat with a look of serene satisfaction on his face, nodded.

"They are remarkable children. Wise beyond their years," he said. "Or perhaps they are just far more observant than we ever realized."

"I prefer to think they're wise," John said, grinning proudly. Sherlock nodded in agreement, taking a sip from his own glass.

"I'd hate to think of the things they've observed in this flat, considering the riff-raff we've had for clients over the years, Sherlock confirmed.

"At least you've stopped storing toes in the refrigerator," Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway. "I had finally gotten used to that," she said thoughtfully. "NOT that I'd like to see them return," she quickly confirmed. The glass of wine she held she rose to her lips, sipping it delicately.

"They are certainly clever," Mycroft said, sipping from his snifter of brandy. "It's such a relief to know that they take after me." Molly snorted from across the room, muffling it only barely in her own wine glass.

The adults paused, listening, as a new set of notes reached their ears from Will's bedroom. He was composing again. They all smiled, wondering silently who he was going to give his gift to next.

From the room down the hall, the innocent love from the heart of a child rang out, sweetly and tangibly, from the strings of his violin, while his best friend in the whole world curled up in the fussy chair, knowing that finally, the notes he wrote with such perfect affection, were meant for her.


End file.
